


Seeing Angels

by AlamutJones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, pre-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlamutJones/pseuds/AlamutJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albus Dumbledore tells a story, and Severus Snape must make a choice. </p>
<p>Written before HBP was released (which makes it no longer canon-compliant). Ported across - after some editing, to polish up what's basically a ten year old story - from my old FF.net account.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Angels

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter universe and everything in it belongs to J. K. Rowling. I mean no offence, and play in her world only because I love it.

Albus Dumbledore was easy to contact. Not necessarily easy to _find –_ he did many things with his life, often in thoroughly strange places a long way away from the usual haunts of one hundred and thirty year old men – but he was always easy to contact. He was the Headmaster, and as such required a regular address. After all, it wouldn't do for the parents to have to chase the Headmaster of Hogwarts around every time one of their snot-nosed little brats complained about something.

 

Severus didn't think he would ever be a teacher. Children lacked focus. They certainly lacked discipline – in his seven years at Hogwarts as a student, he had only once seen students of any age really regarding their classes with any sort of seriousness, and that was towards the beginning of their final exams when they realised they had no choice. Add to that the fact that some students simply had no ability to speak of, and the situation became almost hopeless. The ones who were moderately capable – he clenched his fists without noticing he was doing it, thinking very clearly of those four...no,  _those two -_ were also foolish and irresponsible, and that was even worse. Had there been a way to thin out classes so that only the capable and those willing to be driven forward were present, it might perhaps have been bearable, but there had been nothing of the sort whilst he was at school. While Dumbledore remained Headmaster here, there probably never would be.

 

But (he reminded himself silently) that was not the point. Criticising Dumbledore now would accomplish nothing.

 

The gargoyle outside the Headmaster's office was an irritatingly cheerful thing with a Cockney accent. He remembered hearing Dumbledore refer to it as Frederick. It turned its head slowly, stone grinding on stone.

 

"Oi. I 'eard yer say you 'ad an 'poinment wiv Dumbledore, but y'didn't say it were fer tomorrer. Are y' comin' in or not?"

 

"I can't," he replied coldly. Stonework should not have a personality. "You have yet to move."

 

"Well, there's no need t' be rude!" The gargoyle muttered something to itself, probably cursing the fact it didn't have the right parts in its face to scowl. It stopped and peered at him more closely. "'Ang on a tick...I've seen you before, I 'ave. Few years back now, comin' up 'ere wiv them boys as was such troublemakers. Y'know the ones I mean, Black and Potter and that quiet one what was always so sick, wotsisname, the Lupin lad. No Pettigrew that time, but 'e was probably in bed like a good lad..."

 

_**"Move."** _

 

"There y'go again, bein' rude t'me..."

 

Had this infuriating creature not been carved out of stone, he would have strangled it already. He was tempted to try just the same.

 

"That incident is between Professor Dumbledore, the other boys and myself. Do not mention it again."

 

The gargoyle rolled its eyes and muttered something else uncomplimentary, but moved aside with a long scrape. It turned its head almost all the way around (with another, smaller scrape) and bawled, "Your 'pointment, Professor Dumbledore sir!"

 

And there was Dumbledore, looking much the same as he ever had. Dumbledore was like the castle itself, permanent and unchanging. Long silver beard. Dark blue robes, probably worth more than Severus would earn in a year, with silver thread worked into the weave of the fabric and more silver embroidered at each cuff. Half-moon glasses perched on his nose, settled just right for him to peer over the top of them. He had a quill – eagle feather, by the look of it – tucked behind his left ear. Dumbledore nodded gravely, but did not smile.

 

"Hello Severus. Please come in."

 

***

 

Severus really did not change very much. It seemed unfortunate, when if he could have had a slightly better start – a family that cared for him, perhaps even one person closer than an acquaintance – his own ambition could have carried him immeasurably further. He was not a stupid man; if he had had just a little more, he could have achieved so much.  
  
None of that had happened. 

 

As matters stood, his pride held him apart from others. He said this did not matter, he said he didn't care...but from what Dumbledore had seen of him he had not been a particularly happy child to begin with, and that child had grown into a cynical and a lonely young man. In the potions laboratory, there and only there, perhaps he could be close to contentment. Potions ingredients did not make too many sudden and unexpected changes. Experimenting with their properties had always pleased him. Severus understood potions almost instinctively, but people?

 

No. He did not understand, had never understood, people.

 

Over the years Dumbledore had shifted from teaching Transfiguration or any conventional classes, finding more value in assisting his students in a much more difficult lesson. He did not have very many failures in this lesson, hard as it was, but it saddened him very much to count this young man as one of them.

 

"Would you care for a cup of tea, Severus?" Dumbledore rather enjoyed his afternoon cups of tea. They were a comfortable little ritual, and one of the house elves – Simmy, if he remembered correctly – made truly outstanding fruit scones. He made certain to have at least one per day, and sent his compliments down with the plate.

 

"No."

 

Severus did not seem comfortable. His voice was clipped, and if he was not yet fidgeting he certainly wished he could. Of course, his last visit here had been under unpleasant circumstances. He had been very badly frightened then; no doubt the incident would linger with him for the rest of his life.

 

"You're certain? Perhaps a scone?" He offered the plate. "I can recommend them. They really are quite superb."

 

"No...thank you." It was clearly an afterthought. That pause. Severus was not used to thanking people. He did not often have cause to thank anyone. 

 

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and studied the younger man, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, trying to imagine what should bring him here. He made a point of being available where possible should any of his students (or indeed former students) wish to see him...but Severus Snape did not ask for help or guidance. He never had.

 

Always, always, he wore black. The school uniform for young Slytherins had involved green and silver trim on the robes as well, but when looking at him all anyone had usually been able to notice was the black. Now he was no longer required to wear school uniform – at twenty years of age, he was far too old – he still dressed almost entirely in plain, solid black. Black trousers, dark grey shirt (it was not black, but it may as well have been), black robes. No colour anywhere. Even his socks, barely visible beneath the hem of his robes, were black. It did not suit him very well. With his greasy black hair (that had not changed either; he had always kept it in much the same style) and sallow skin, his hooked nose...he had never been handsome, and he knew it. James Potter and Sirius Black had sought to remind him of it at every opportunity. There had been others also, but now he had taken it much further, and he looked like a vampire. He sounded very like one too. Such formality...right from the beginning, he had spoken with more care than most children did. He did not sound young. Perhaps he preferred that. 

 

Dumbledore put the tea down. "What would you like to discuss?"

 

Severus did not answer. Instead, he seized his left arm and began rolling up the sleeve. Burnt clearly into the pale, vulnerable skin of his forearm was...a tattoo, but not quite. Not entirely. It was a skull with a snake poking out of its mouth, and it was purplish-black.

 

***

 

Dumbledore was almost staring at it, bending his head down to inspect it closely. Perhaps he was having trouble believing it was real. If he was, he was more stupid than he had ever let on. 

 

There were many of them around. Dumbledore must have known that most of the Death Eaters were young. Some of them were  _ very _ young – there was more than one sixteen or seventeen year old boy already sworn to service, following his father or older brothers to war before he ever left the safety of Hogwarts grounds. Fewer girls, of course. There were not many women in the movement to begin with, and those that were there were often thoroughly sadistic. They joined mostly because they liked inflicting pain, or because their husbands did, rather than through any particularly strong ideological positions of their own. It was all about the pain. The fact that they were all either from or married into old and respected pureblood families – many were both – simply put them in a position of power where what they truly craved was easier to inflict.

 

"I see." Dumbledore's voice was very soft. He looked up into the younger man's face. "How long have you been doing this?"

 

"I joined on my eighteenth birthday." He didn't flinch. The words were flung out almost proudly. He wanted Dumbledore to know – it was vital, somehow, that Dumbledore should know – he hadn't been coerced. It had been his choice.

 

"Why?"

 

"Because I could. There is no other reason."

 

"Was it the beliefs that triggered it?"

 

"No. I wanted to make an impact. My existing situation did not allow it."

 

Dumbledore stopped and considered the words. Severus waited. He would get there eventually. For now, it was merely a matter of hoping he did it quickly. Personally, he could have done without the existing Death Eater beliefs – they were crude, they meant very little to him, and words did not prove anything. Actions were remembered far more often than the words uttered before them. The actions he had completed so far were a waste of his time.

 

"So why, then, did you come to me?" Dumbledore spoke gently. He would almost have preferred it if the man had shouted, but Dumbledore never shouted for anything. "I would have no choice but to denounce you. You knew that before this conversation began. Why come here?"

 

"I have been doing this for two years now. So far,  _ nothing has changed.  _ I did the same thing last week as I did last year. I am not moving forward, and any pleasure I took in inflicting pain is gone. I joined so I could test myself, and so far I have not been tested at the level of my abilities. There is little skill in what I do. I can do more than this, but the opportunity is not there to prove it. I have had enough."

 

This was the most he had ever said to a teacher outside of Potions class. For most of the time, he had sat in the back of the room, done his work without comment...and thought quietly of what he would do when he had a life to himself. Powerful thoughts. He would establish himself as a professional potion brewer, just to show that he could. He would be the best in the business, if it took him years to achieve, and more importantly he would do it entirely on his own. Not so he could become famous and give lectures, as usually happened with eminent wizards – that would have been a complete waste of time unless they were truly serious about using what they learned, which he doubted – but so he could be  _ more.  _

 

People's expectations of him had never been particularly high.

 

He had realised that, as a Death Eater, it would not happen. It  _ could not  _ happen. The only way out of service – and he had seen this done many times by now, in a wide variety of pointlessly hideous ways – was death...or possibly Dumbledore. It was not begging for release. He had never begged for anything in his life, had learned very early on that begging did not help. So it could not be begging, and it was not asking.

 

Perhaps, if he were drowning, it would have been the sudden, shattering realisation that he could raise his hand.

 

***

 

Dumbledore had heard a story once, when he was quite young. His mother had told it to him as a bedtime story. Over in the next bed, Aberforth had fidgeted and made a lot of noise, as he usually did when he was bored – a habit he had yet to abandon completely – but young Albus had listened very carefully. He had enjoyed the story quite a lot, and had kept it in his memory, word for word, right through his childhood, through his adolescence and into adulthood. It had angels in it. More correctly, it had  _ one,  _ very special, angel in it.

 

Perhaps not the best thing to say to a man far too old for stories...or a good thing to say to a man who had never really been told one.

 

:Severus, I am going to tell you something, and I want you to listen. I heard a story once, many years ago, that I enjoyed very much. I am going to tell it to you."

 

"I don't have time for stories."

  
  
No time for stories? How very sad that was. "Have you ever truly heard one?"

 

"I have. I have no wish to hear another."

 

"This one is very simple, Severus. It will not take long. Nevertheless, I would like you to listen."

 

There was a very special voice that had to be adopted for proper storytelling. Just as cricket could not be played without a bat or Quidditch could not be played without a broomstick, stories simply did not work without this voice. Dumbledore did his best to reproduce it.

 

"Once upon a time, there was a man in a prison cell. He was sentenced to be hanged the next morning, and he could not see a way out of it. He was going to die and there was nothing he could do. Naturally, he was not looking forward to this unfortunate event. Imagine his surprise then, Severus, when another man appeared in the corner of his cell. This man was all in white, and he had a great pair of golden wings growing from his back – he was an angel. This angel told this man that he could be saved from hanging, if he chose, but that the path he must walk afterwards would be harder and more painful than anything he had ever known. The choice was left entirely up to the man."  
  
"Where is this leading?" Severus was not made for listening to stories. He couldn't see what lay beneath the words.

 

"The man thought about it, and decided to stay where he was. He would be hanged. I could not tell you why, but that was his decision. On his way up the steps to the scaffold, the man began to have second thoughts. He wondered what might have been if he chose differently. He wondered whether or not another angel might appear to help him. None came, and so he died."

 

Dumbledore paused. For effect, mostly, but also to finish his excellent scone.

 

"A month later there was a different man, in the same cell. He was also waiting to be hanged. The angel appeared to him as well, offering precisely the same choice in precisely the same words. The second man thought about it, and chose to accept the offer. When he agreed, the angel smiled."

 

"Is that it?"

 

"Yes Severus, that is, in fact, "it". Was it so bad?" Dumbledore smiled. There was a reason he had told this story, in this place, to this man.

 

"I saw little point to it."

 

Dumbledore leaned forward, peering over his glasses.

 

"You came to me, telling me you have had enough of all the Death Eaters offer. You cannot be seen to leave them. Knowing this, I am going to ask you to make a difficult choice. You can stay where you are, as you are, with no consequence, as safe as if we had never spoken. Or you can help me to stop them. It will be difficult. You will suffer. You will be a traitor among them, reporting to me on their activities and plans. You will die if they find what you have done...but you will not be underused or ignored. The reasons for your choice remain private, of course. You do not have to tell me. The choice is up to you."

 

Severus blinked, slowly. 

 

"You would trust me with that? When you know what I could do to you, what I have already done?"

 

He knew himself then, and was not entirely happy with what he saw. Better, perhaps, than a Severus who was genuinely enjoying himself as a Death Eater.

 

"Yes Severus, I would. If you said you would help me, I would trust you to keep your word. Whatever else you are, you have always kept your word." Albus Dumbledore stood up. "However, there is one more small thing I forgot to tell you about angels..."

 

"What would that be?" Even after this, Severus had little time for stories.

 

"You only ever see one."


End file.
